


A Bridge from Conviction

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Biting, Blow Jobs, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Internal Conflict, M/M, Neck Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27806503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In a Witcher's line of work, there is always an intersection. Every path has revelations, either written in parchment or by blood, and to survive the cruelty, the mind has to be hewn for every bridge. Intelligence is what leads to survival and disregarding it has its consequences.Yet even Witchers can fail. The truth can be partisan and the mind can be tricked. It can render them the last thing they want to admit.That they are just as human as the rest.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Vernon Roche
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	A Bridge from Conviction

**Author's Note:**

> hidethepaingeralt.jpg

There was an explanation for everything. Every action caused a reaction, even down to the smallest facial tick, and within every interaction the lines could be drawn to how the present had come to be. It was found in all aspects of his profession. The way a man would look away, guilty, when mentioning a stalking Noonwraith - a lover they had killed. Or the slide of tracks belonging to a caravan overburdened with stolen supplies or pointless luxury, causing the party to stand out as slow, tantalizing prey. Wyverns, griffins, cockatrices - it didn’t matter what grabbed them first but they always did. In the end dead flesh could tell the living the tale of woe. Lines lead to truth, and truth explained all.

Except when it _didn’t_.

He had come to a strange point where there was no explanation he could present that would absolve him from what he was doing. He had excuses, but everyone had those in supply - _some deeper than others_. Yet he was not one who held secrets like a Gwent player held their cards to their breast; He was the farthest thing from being able to conjure fabrications. Or, at least he had thought for the longest time. For all his code provided, all his understanding of himself and his denials and judgments, he had come to a juncture which all humans - Yes, even Witchers - came to.

He couldn’t give a reason to his lust. It just _was_.

If he was forced to sit down - chained, if he wanted to be cheeky about it - he could provide an answer, but it wouldn’t be satisfactory. Not to himself or to anyone with a hard sense of logic and rationality. It would always come off as a flubbering excuse and he had nothing to say that it wasn’t. He had reached an apex where there was nothing to be said and his lines led to the truth in a sloppy, incoherent manner.

The frank matter was he lusted for Roche; To the point where acting on it seemed right.

How could he explain it? Justify it? Absolve himself? How could he, a Witcher, fathom it? Even from an outside perspective there was nothing wrong in his calculations. When he drew the past and pulled from his memory, there were moments he could pick out to which he had admiration for him, but no desire. Yet there he was, in his tent that was stitched together with blood and lilies with said object of lust staring at him with a thin, terse expression. He stood before him, neutral, yet his body belayed his intentions. How his veins pumped blood downward at a frightening rate, his eyes locked on his frame as the sickness took hold. In that moment, on that day and hour, he had nothing to say. He lusted. And Roche could tell, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Vernon Roche, bastard extraordinaire - and friend, his _friend_ \- had resisted at first, as any sane man would. Mentions and innuendos at first while he poured over his map, his mouth running without his ability to control it. The guilt rose and he accepted a cup of ale when offered, but it didn’t temper his predicament. In fact, it seemed to surge it more and he grappled with the strangeness as Roche watched him with an expression he couldn’t read. A wavering between confusion and exasperation, yet he couldn’t be sure. He pressed on and made a fool of himself as the sun began to wane and the braziers were relit by the symbol he drew with his hand.

To his credit. Vernon graciously played off his growing stupidity with more tact than he thought he was capable of, each time mentioning something to bring him back to reality. Triss, his mysterious other lover, the stage they were at, the sudden interest in him off all people. Hell, he was even asked if he had done any fisstech. They were all offered as a means for him to save himself one last time. To think, as that is what rational beings did. What he did more than Roche at times; He was reason where Vernon was chaos.

_Clarity_ and deduction. Those were tenants of his code.

Yet it crumbled as the night began to surface and his wanting proceeded to numb his tongue and mind. It allowed him to stumble forward for reasons unknown, as if his non-existent emotions - ones he denied fervently - truly manifested in reality and pulsed inside him. Enough that Roche banged into his table when he advanced before he could escape, his hard eyes furrowed and cold, his fingers white on the table in hesitation before his throat started to move in a shocked swallow. As slow as creamed honey being dipped into a new jar, the motion itself smooth, tempting, and beckoning. It rattled him as he stared, realizing his thirst wouldn’t be sated a drink or potion. The feeling was mirrored - the same dryness drought brought - but water wasn’t what his throat needed. It was for the mere contact of his mouth against Roche’s skin.

Maybe he understood. Or perhaps he was just being generous; The truth in that moment would never be known. He couldn’t read his dark eyes, nor the way his mouth had pressed together for a second, drawing thin in what he assumed to be anger until they parted and he breathed soft. Contradictions he could normally understand yet he was blind.

It didn’t terrify him like he should. Instead he was left on edge, silently pleading for a choice he shouldn’t want.

And Roche gave it to him after delaying.

“Bind the tent strings,” he ordered, his voice low yet rigid. He was _complying_. “Tight.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Except he should have; There needed to be a moment of reprieve for him to study his actions. He didn’t believe in the gods or phantom deities, but something had possessed him with a hard heat in his loins. It made him boyish and clumsy and as drunk as a child on a stolen flask of wine. He was _altered._ He needed to leave. Yet his boots carried him to the entrance of the tent in six short strides. Faster than he had moved when he saw the eclipse of the blood curse fill the sky.

He tied foolish knots with stupid fingers and left holes where light could poke in if prodded with barely any pressure. Sloppy, really. As if his brain has been emptied of even the basics of skill. Only it didn’t matter to him at the moment. None of it did. He was given a chance and it was as if it had been penned by Alzur himself; An opportunity from the gods. A reward presented to him for once; The tent became a dark cocoon, save for the light of pitch soaked torches and lit braziers, and it cut them off from the world. As if Roche and him has been removed from reality itself and existed in a space and time that was suspended. Their - _his_ \- own little workshop. His own brothel, in a sense, with a single prospect. 

He’d be insane to pass it up - or perhaps to indulge.

Roche remained by the table, his mouth still pressed into a frown, before he reached for his belt after he had turned to stare at him with his new knowledge. He was hesitant, as if he was waiting for him to come to his senses. Maybe for the thing that was failing him - an explanation of _why_. But he had nothing to say, his eyes locked on where his hands lay on his hip, and after a minute he succumb. Vernon Roche began to strip.

He didn’t even seem angry about it. More tired than pissed and it was a reaction he filed away in his mind. Something he would have to contemplate later - another fog in the annuls of certainty. For now, well. His focus laid on Roche and how his fingers started to undo the clasp of his belt and how oddly delicate they were. Strong, yet limber.

He caught his sword before it fell, the leather slackening fast, and he placed it behind him with a careful _clunk_ , his fingers moving to work on the strap his crossbow was hooked to next. It was fascinating to watch Roche remove his weapons. He moved with an unnatural grace as he pulled a dagger from the lining of his gambeson, then a crude shiv from his chaperon, each weapon memorized so completely that Roche barely looked at what he was doing. When he finally pulled his drooping belts free and placed his mace with them across his short sword, he moved in close, staring with hunger as Roche’s armor slackened on him, his footsteps crossing the distance with ease. Free from his knives and picks, ready to be shoved off and reveal the Commander beneath.

Only Roche shied when he came, his fingers digging into the table as he closed the gap between them with a quickness not even Vesemir could match. If it was out of embarrassment, he didn’t catch it. “Geralt,” he muttered, his cheeks beginning to present a deep flush as he stared at the ground for a moment. Still hesitant. “Don’t do anything strange.” He didn’t understand and Vernon sighed, his cheek twitching in annoyance. Reading his confusion through expression alone. “You keep looking at me like you’re going to kill and devour me.”

The statement made him pause. “I won’t.”

“Then stop looking as if you want to.”

Without thinking, he licked his lips. It clearly didn’t help. “Geralt,” Roche snapped, his flush increasing to a deeper shade, more angry than shy, but again he was losing his mind and the ability to tell the truth. He did want to devour Vernon in a way. Just not cannibalistically.

“I won’t,” he reassured him. Roche’s cheek twitched twice but whatever he wanted to say died with his resistance. His shoulders relaxed and he breathed.

“…Whatever. Just keep it in mind.”

He didn’t reply. Of course he would - how could he not? But he was still locked on how he looked without being armed to the teeth. When Roche inevitably shifted out of lingering discomfort from his gaze, he attacked with a fever. It was the only way he could describe it. It was instinctual and fast, and his prey had no chance as he surrounded him, his mouth grasping for his neck like a Katakan that found a stray beggar. Rushed, jerked, and definitely frightening. However, before a punch could be laid, his lips met skin and he kissed. Enough that Roche shuddered, but he still remained rigid. And more importantly, his clenched fist lowered.

He ignored it as he tasted - he had been given permission, hadn’t he? To covet the rough, pale flesh, edged with hints of stubble but strong and solid under his lips. He could feel the muscle below, how Roche sharply breathed, his hands moving to grasp his arms in delayed shock when he licked, and he tasted him with the full extent of his mouth when no further resistance came. He smelled like a soldier but his skin tasted of more refinery. Softened by oil when he had shaved earlier, the neutral taste only accentuated with the typical saltiness of flesh. He could feel the bumps where hair had been and spots that had been missed and ill cut with the blade. It made his tongue run over them in curiosity, sliding on skin that had never been touched in such a way, and Roche’s nails were soon embedded in the leather on his arms.

He stopped just to suck below his jaw, feeling how he swallowed in turn, each tendon quivering with life. Only when Roche began to constantly shift and breathe did he pull back and witness the broken flesh, the blood vessels red and stark against milky skin.

That was when Vernon punched him. Not hard, but enough to make him stagger, and he let go to reach and touch his jaw, blinking in shock.

“Prick,” he spit, his fist uncurling so he could touch where he had marked his skin, wiping away his saliva.

It should have been his last warning; Knocked sense into his brain, jostled him from his feverish desire. Made him see he needed to think and not act. Anything to turn him away and meditate on how his path had diverged to that point and that he had marked _Vernon Roche’s_ neck. Instead, he felt his loins grow hotter with desire. He never bedded anyone who hadn’t first pushed themselves into his lap and it was foreign and fresh for his body. As if he was a yearling buck that had their first whiff of mating season.

Then again, he didn’t know any human who acted as feral and stupid as Vernon Roche, so what was forming was clearly something unique. Or he had a death wish.

He pushed again, slamming him back against the table, nearly causing him to fall back on it but his arms caught him and he stared into his wild eyes, watching how he bared his teeth and huffed in shock and indignation. 

“Witcher-” he began, like he did all his ranting speeches, but he was already shoving against the other side of his neck, sucking at the flesh and feeling his pulse under his tongue. It beat hard, like a miniature heart, each pump mirroring his own blood rushing to his cock, and he licked at it with abandon, savouring the taste of rapeseed oil and salt. It was better than honey on bread.

“Ge-Geralt!” Roche spat, but he once again was wavering, and he pulled them together in response, leaning Roche over his damn table of weapons and picks, bringing them close in a strange embrace that didn’t quite fit. Even without the belts, Roche’s gambeson was padded thickly to prevent stray arrows from making killing blows, yet all it did was annoy him as his armor was fitted sharper around his form. He could feel and breathe like the leather was a second skin but Vernon was too protected. He could taste the flash of skin on his throat but not experience if he was losing it as fast as he was. He wanted to know - was Roche capable of buckling to lust as well? Was he being affected?

Did he subconsciously understand his need?

He pulled back, catching Roche’s breath, how his cheeks were flushed with what seemed like desire, and he merely gave a tug on him. It was his turn to blink in confusion.

“What?”

“Off.” He paused. “Please.”

Roche’s mouth drew into a thin line. “Why?”

“Because I want it off.”

“And I want my King back,” he said. “We don’t always get what we want.”

Not even the mention of Foltest was enough to deter him. “I want you.”

Roche blinked twice then turned as red as a sailor’s sunset, his mouth turning into a sharp line. Yet he didn’t push him away. Even though he should have - the words he had spoken were too intimate and revealing between them. _But he had to say them._ “You’re a fucking idiot.”

He was, but it didn’t change anything. So he began to strip - lead by example. Yet he couldn’t tear his gaze from Roche as he reached between them and started, an action the Commander clearly noted with a twitch of his cheek.

He chose his belts, just as Roche had done, only his didn’t hold a long gambeson to his frame. It did the duty of what it was expected, and when he unbuckled and let his trousers begin to fall, his gaze breaking to fumble with a caught knot, he felt Roche stiffen in front of him, his muscles turning to stone like that of a gargoyle. A quick glance told him all he needed to know - the Commander’s eyes weren’t locked on his in any capacity. They were between his legs, and he felt himself twitch in the barely confining cotton of his braies. However that was only the beginning. Vernon hadn’t seen the extent of what he wanted.

He began to properly peel away his armor and the flush deepened on Roche’s face, but he didn’t look away. It spurred him to calm, his fingers growing solid and tempered, so he began to tease; For both of them - they needed the show. Slowly, he unclasped straps and undid strings, dropping his swords down to the ground with a single hand, not caring much on how they fell. They were in their scabbards and had taken a greater beating than being temporarily discarded on the trodden ground. Besides, they’d understand. This was important.

When he started shrugging his armor off his flexing shoulders, his medallion swinging back and forth and catching the light, Vernon finally moved. He reached forward and grabbed his gauntlet, giving it a tug, helping him undress further until he stood in only thin cotton. Nearly naked and showing no qualms about it. As a reward, he watched as Roche’s eyes moved down once again and his cheek twitched, his lips worrying for a moment.

It was the first time that night he felt himself genuinely smile. Roche didn’t seem too amused by it.

“You’re ploughing strange,” he muttered, moving to pull of his own worn gloves, one which was missing a stud on the left knuckle.

“Am I?” They both knew the answer to it, but Roche remained silent. He thanked him by unclasping his medallion off and placing it on the table behind him, its wolf eyes made to stare at the dyed blue ceiling. It was momentary and needed; He didn’t want the metal to bite Roche before he had the chance. His neck had just been an appetizer.

Vernon didn’t ask for help as he yanked on the uneven red strings that help his uniform to his upper body, his cheek twitching again, but this time in irritation. It gave him enough time to grasp the ends of his gambeson and wrench it over his head, ignoring how Roche stiffened and cursed at his forced blindness.

It was needed. He’d understand.

His chaperon, medallion, and coif came off with his turned-out uniform, and it was the first time he had seen Roche bare, a static charging between them as he tossed it to the side. It was a revelation that seemed to annoy him as he quickly ran a hand through his short salted hair and jolts of lightning sparked and died on his fingers, his body stiff again as he nearly sat on the table. 

“What?” he sneered at him. Oddly, such an action only made his cock twitch with need.

“Nothing.”

He grumbled, scratching his nape for a second. “Just spit out what you want to say, Geralt.”

It took him a moment to decide. “I didn’t think your hair was that light. Or that short.”

“I’m a soldier. Do you think we keep our hair as long as yours?”

“I didn’t expect any at all.”

That made him snort. “I’ll be eating dirt before I shave my head.” He had to smile at that. It was an appropriate Vernon Roche answer. “Can we just get on with it?”

He still stared. He did want to, but again, he was compelled. Forced to react due to a need. “Can I touch it?”

“What?” he nearly flinched. “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“Then why the fuc-”

“I just want to,” he said. It was an honest truth. Again, there was no reason behind it and he felt a small twinge inside his mind at the unusualness of his request. As if he was truly reacting emotionally. Or perhaps it was a physical need. Something inside him clouded the reason, but the desire existed. He wanted to _touch_ Roche, intimately. To understand the reasons himself. Perhaps all this was becoming was the ache of missing Triss.

Or maybe he had grown attached to Foltest’s hound. His heart quickened but he swallowed it down. It was the last thing they needed.

His statement had left him startled and flustered, his fingers moving to hook into the loops of his chainmail around his neck, before he turned his head away, flashing his marked neck as his ears took on a rosy colour. “You’re fucking odd, Geralt.”

He couldn’t deny it. “I know.” More than a heartbeat fell between them. “Can I?” he tried again.

Roche grimaced before he sighed. “Do whatever you want.”

“Are you-”

_“Geralt.”_

What else could he do? Fight it? Complain? He was past that point. His mind was past logic. So, he took full advantage. After all, it was given to him and he’d be stupid not to.

He reached up, ignoring how Roche seemed to shrink back for a second, as if he would hit him, before he let his nails push into his hair, scratching his skull as he did. Clearly Roche hadn’t washed for a few days, but it still didn’t change how coarse it was. Like the fur of a deer rather than a dog, and he slid his hand back, moving to cup his head, feeling the strength still left in the follicles. Roche’s jaw went tight and he could tell he was holding back on possibly punching him again. He decided to give him a bit of a scratch, just like a master would do to their dog. It didn’t help.

“Do you want a knife in your neck?” Vernon hissed, glaring at him with a look one could only describe as seething. He stopped.

“No.”

“Then cut it the fuck out.”

“I thought I could do whatever I wanted,” he said. Dark eyes met his and Roche actually made him shiver with the coldness of his gaze.

“Don’t _push_ it.”

Fair.

This time, he let his instinct take over and his lust dictate what he wanted to do when Roche finally settled and stop glaring icicles into his skin. Pressing flush against him again, the chainmail cold even through his shirt, he leaned in to breathe against Roche’s ear, letting it ghost over him and drive a shudder down his spine. He caught it with his hand, feeling the ridges of bone that began at the nape, and he massaged the skin in his hand, listening and soaking in how Roche tried not to melt into his fingers. It took a few minutes, his breath helping tease Roche to settling, and his reward came out soft and meek. A moan that he wanted to be the first of many.

He pressed a kiss above his ear in thanks, feeling how soft the white streaks in his hair were against his lips. Probably the only part of the Blue Stripes Commander that felt as such. Roche shifted in response and they pieced together. Sinking into a position that made him forget the awkwardness of what they were doing or how they felt - or for the fact this was _wrong_.

It didn’t matter. He kissed his hair again, pushing his lips down to his skull, and he felt the heat of him as Roche touched his thigh. Pulling for a moment until he got the hint and angled; Just enough where he could press his erection against his hip. Instantly, he heard him breathe. Ragged and slightly afeared. 

“Geralt,” he muttered, but he didn’t want to hear it. Not yet. He dragged his mouth down, sliding it over his ear, before he started with a technique he had perfected on Triss. Nibbling on his lobe, gently tugging on the precious flesh, before he drove his tongue in. Tasting the bitterness at first before it turned into him being a bit more daring. Fucking him with his tongue in a sense - he was _odd_ after all.

Roche bucked and his fingers ripped at his bare arms, the shock enough to make him nearly moan. “Witcher-!” he snapped, but whatever anger he had melted into a whimper. “Geralt, that’s-!” He pushed harder, licking his ear with the full flatness of his tongue and Roche shuddered and bucked again. Seemed Triss wasn’t the only one who enjoyed it.

Like a pup seeking its mother, he nursed Roche’s ear, sucking on it for a time, delving and tracing, until he felt the Commander shiver with unhinged lust at the motion. The taste of what they could do only heightening a tension between them. He was stroking him to an orgasm without even touching him, and the same could be said for himself as he rubbed into Roche’s body.

Seconds passed, then minutes, where their breathes began to heave and nails dug into skin, and he had to stop before it ended. It was too easy to give in and if he wasn’t careful, it would ruin what was developing. He didn’t want to destroy the underlying feeling whimpering in his gut. One that made him tremble slightly.

“Geralt?” Roche said as he pulled back, but he didn’t give a response. He only reached below to hike up Roche’s chainmail, pushing himself against him harder so he could feel the heat of his own skin and refocus his mind. He was rewarded with Vernon shifting and rocking against him slightly, a familiar shape pressing against his lower stomach and he groaned softly at the mutuality. It was a deeply satisfying feeling to know that Roche was just as affected as he was. That he wasn’t alone in this. There was a certain truth in desire and when he pulled back, Vernon’s eyes flickered with a need he understood. _Permission_ without words.

He went back to his neck, finally tearing a soft groan from the Hound of Vizima and he tasted him generously. Like a starved man being given a banquet in his honor. He sucked under the cut in his neck until he was swallowing so hard it made his own lips tremble.

Roche opened his legs the more he licked, letting go of him for a moment to brace a hand on the table, but he knew they wouldn’t last long in the awkward position as the boards began to rattle from the weight. He took charge, finally wrenching Roche’s chainmail off, exposing a ragged cotton tunic that hung badly on his frame, and he moved to rip it off too; One last barrier between them. 

Except Vernon stopped him, his grip surprising on his wrist as he let out a small pant, his lips already showing signs of being bitten too much to keep himself in control while his neck shone with his yearning. “No.”

He breathed, almost desperate. “Roche-”

_“No.”_

Stubbornly, he reached for his undergarments and Vernon nearly twisted his wrist, threatening to break it. “Geralt-!”

“It’s one or the other,” he gulped, his own fluttering lust growing hot with need and a flicker of fury.

“It’ll be neither!”

He glared at him and for a second, Roche shrunk back again. He could feel his eyes were dilating, the fire light hurting for a second but he didn’t give a damn. Cat eyes or not, he couldn’t stop. “Don’t make me hex you.”

Anger flashed in his eyes. He was crossing a wrong barrier. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He would. Just not in the way he thought. But he took one last moment to be accommodating to him - before he lost it. “Why are you against undressing?”

Roche stared at him like he was stupid. “Why do you like being so vulnerable?”

It was if it took on two meanings - both which he had no answer to. He just wanted to. No reason or rationality to it. It was a need. He raised his hand and Roche flinched.

“Because I want you, Roche,” he muttered, touching him, absorbing the heat of his skin, how his neck was wet from his saliva - his lust. How his own fingers trembled before they pressed, feeling every inch of flesh they could shape around. “I _want_ you.”

His lips pressed thin.

_”Please.”_

He felt his heart beat against his chest. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession - then it resigned to its former steady beat, a fluttering that was strong yet sunken with exhaustion. Roche closed his eyes for a moment, his brows furrowing, his expression twisting into utter irritation before it faltered and he let go of his wrist. Slowly he moved to rub at his eyes, his index and thumb digging in viciously before he sighed. Whatever he muttered, he couldn’t quite hear, but his shoulders slumped as he reached down between them.

Cautiously he lifted his tunic up, exposing his stomach and chest to him in one fell swoop. “…Asshole.” His mouth ran dry at the sight. “Don’t make me regret this.”

It wasn’t like Triss. Or Ves. Or Shani, or Vesna, or Rozalind. There was no softness and curves to tease him with. Roche was _thin_ and made of angles, and everywhere he looked there were scars. He recognized some from his own journey - stab wounds, arrowhead punctures, even a claw mark. But others were strange and he moved to touch them, their bright white lines slashing through already milk-coloured skin, trying to blend in but failing. A strange spider’s web that curled around him and hid behind his back, stitched up poorly in what he could only assume was his youth.

As soon as he moved to touch one, Roche kicked him in the shin and it semi-knocked him back to reality. “Geralt,” he spat, and he met his eyes, slightly guilty. “Stop it.”

He frowned at him but remained stubborn. “How’d you get them?”

“The same way you did,” he snorted. “I didn’t lift my damn shirt so you can pity me. Either get on with it or get out. You’re starting to piss me off.”

His harshness made him frown but he refocused as instructed, taking one last glance down at the only patch of ink he could see on Roche. Temerian lilies on his lower stomach; He didn’t comment on it. He instead moved to pulling his tunic off completely, dropping it behind him on top of his weapons, and Roche breathed quietly, his eyes sharp and wary, but he didn’t move to cover himself or shy away. He sat on the table, waiting, and he soaked it in for a moment, letting his scars fade and become a greater part of the canvas before him. Though Roche _was_ much slimmer than he assumed.

He needed to be careful.

Though there wasn’t much definition in him, his arms were strong and he could see the muscle underneath pale skin, ready to flex and swing with strength. It was clear Roche wasn’t as solid as he assumed, not like him, but there was an admiration in it. He was lean, almost made for swiftness instead of strength, and it made him curious as he reached down and touched his stomach, feeling how his abdomen rose and fell under his palm, his skin warm and growing oily with sweat. 

It made sense when he slid his hand down more, ignoring how Roche breathed a bit harder when he slipped down farther than he probably was comfortable with. How else would Vernon be able to track the Scoia’tael? Thickness and muscle, like that of Pragnett, would only wear him down. To match an enemy, you had to become them, and he could feel the years of how he maintained it under his fingers. Lithe, no fat, yet still strong enough to carry himself running in full mail. A core that was strong yet wicked away of anything that wasn’t a necessity. Slowly, he drew his hand up, running it over light, coarse hair that trailed from Roche’s rising chest, until he paused at his collar. Short of his throat but enough that his fingertips could stroke the hollow.

Vernon said nothing to his action but his eyes never left his face. His gaze was no longer oppressive, but steady and waiting like a wolf watching a sick calf. He was reading him just as much as he had been analyzing his body and it left him swallowing slightly when their eyes met, neither moving despite their closeness. He could feel Roche’s breath warming the air between them and there was no doubt he was doing the same back. His hand slid off to brace on the table and Roche once again pressed his mouth into a thin line. This time it wasn’t out of disapproval. It held restraint - a hesitation dipped in a wavering question he knew all too well.

Crossing the line. Another barrier between them.

Silently he reached for him and it made his heart quicken as he remained as still as he could, unaware of his own body’s breathing until Roche touched him. Like frost forming on a still pond - delicate, light, and brisk.

Roche’s fingertips moved like a snake in the grass, slipping and inching down from his ribs to grab the edge of his undergarments, his gaze unbroken as he did. It left him holding in his breath as Vernon purposely let his palm barely touch his clothed erection, but no pressure was added. It was meant to be a tease - maybe a warning? Roche was rather volatile - and heat began to rise on his skin as he shifted forward.

He knew what he was doing. Roche _knew_ better than him yet there was still a lingering doubt within his grip. Even as he grasped the edge of his clothes, his fist balling the fabric between strong hands, he could see the shiver that raised bumps on his skin at their intimacy. 

He leaned forward, his hand dropping, and caught the scent of Roche’s breath. Tobacco. He wondered if he tasted like it.

“It’s only fair,” Roche said, giving a tug on his hip and he stiffened himself before realizing what he wanted.

“It’s only fair?” he asked quietly. Their gaze didn’t break but he saw how he watched him and analyzed every word. _Was this right?_

“I’m not going to be the only one without clothes on.” 

He had to agree and he let him see the smile that tugged at his lips. It made him swallow, his gaze still reflective of that of a deer that had seen the wolf pack in the shadows. Calculating, even in that moment. But he was beyond wanting to stop. He gave in and _groaned_ for him to solidify his position.

He was under _his_ spell.

“Then, Roche, do whatever you want.”

He saw a slight twinge of irritation in his eyes but it died quickly when he moved closer to him. Trapping his prey between his braced hands, letting him see how his muscles rippled and flexed in anticipation for more; For him. That he meant it and damned what assumptions he had. If he had to, he would _eat_ him in desperation. Starving wolves needed to be fed, after all.

Roche didn’t tease him further. The moment he was pulled free, however, the air between them changed. Like the breaking point had finally been crossed and the world was suddenly more than he imagined. As soon as his braies hit the ground, Roche shifted, his nails scraping the table wood and he felt the tension grow deep. Dangerous and hot, like past midnight in a brothel. When the giddiness and excitement had finally drained and left a heightened feeling of tangible, unspeakable lust. Roche’s eyes grew dark and heavy, his brown eyes turning black, hiding all things but desire, and he felt himself tense, flexing around him, swallowing his airs.

It left his mouth dry. This is what he had been feeling, only now he could see it in another and it made his fears sink deep underneath his skin. Roche _understood_.

The scent of their arousal was heedful between them and the longer they lingered, the more the tent seemed to close in around them. They hit the precipice. If one wanted to leave - to escape back to logic and truth, to where the night could be erased and hidden - then it was then and now. This was the cliff. No one would know. Men get drunk, after all. What soldier couldn’t say he kissed a brother while three cups into an ale, singing in a tent that made it seem as all sound would never escape?

And he should. Even though Vernon was before him - understanding and breathing just as much - there was always a point in which a man had to choose. Left or right, up or down. _Right_ or wrong.

He had so many others. Triss. _Triss_. And Yennefer. Did he forget about her? Yet Roche before him made it hard to remember. The electricity, the heat, the darkness that was swallowing them both as one of the torches flickered out on the erected post. It was hard to think of anything. Shadows drew from every corner, blotting out even the bright canvas lilies, and for a second there was only their heartbeats.

Roche opened his mouth, but he broke first. The cliff had called for him to leap off and he was too far at the edge to turn back. It was down or _nothing_.

He grabbed him with sure hands, crushing them together, finally feeling his cock hit the bare skin of his stomach, and Roche only scratched down his arms, tearing the cotton of his undershirt. Their foreheads nearly met but the damned Commander was smarter than to give in so easily. He breathed through slightly clenched teeth and he licked his lips again, both nearly giving in to insanity before he felt his mouth bite at his chin.

_”Not yet, Witcher.”_

Gods be damned. He nearly gave in right there.

But the stage had been set for this and he wasn’t leaving the atmosphere so easily. Not when he could feel the strength of Roche in his arms, how he was letting him clutch him and rub shamelessly against his thigh. He made a noise - Mocking? - before it shifted into a soft groan and he saw his eyes flutter, his own hip moving to press against him so he could feel the friction. The rolling, shifting need that was building in them and leaving the table beneath dipping from the weight.

If it collapsed, that would be a problem. Not to him - he’d fuck Roche on the broken boards if needed - but if reality was allowed to come in, he doubted he’d ever get the moment back. This was a time only for Roche and him and he wasn’t letting the bastard of the Blue Stripes get away with touching him once then never again. It would be madness.

Wouldn’t it?

Didn’t matter. His lust needed to be slicked and with that, he grabbed Roche’s own shorts and yanked them down and off, taking his boots with them. He didn’t even seem to notice.

When he lifted him up, Roche barely reacted, as if he had been waiting for him to do it. He wrapped his legs around him, not unlike the whores of brothels did, but his sharp body was too hard to be mistaken as anyone else but himself. Thin, light but still deadly, his cock just as hot pressing into his stomach as his own dripping one was against his thigh. And in his typical fashion, just as he began carrying him, Roche moved in for his own kill. One he clearly had been waiting for. He rewarded him - or perhaps it was a punishment - with a mark of his own to display on his neck. This time with teeth.

The pain made him smirk the moment his skin was bluntly punctured and he dug his nails into his ass in response. No blood would be drawn, but marks weren’t exclusively banned between them either. He had started it. “Roche-”

“Don’t talk,” he groaned with his skin still between his lips. He nearly complied.

_”I’ll remember that.”_

He rumbled a dark laugh in response. As if he wanted him to.

They clashed as he carried him to his miserable pallet, raised off the dirt floor by wooden blocks that barely seemed able to hold up a glass. Roche, with his teeth and stubbed nails, pulled at his skin as if he wanted to eat him, acting like an aghoul drunk on the scent of blood. Yet he wasn’t much better as he felt how easy it was to control him. A single hand moving to bury in Roche’s hair and _pull_ got a wordless cry of pain but his writhing was what drove him mad. He could feel the heat on his shaft; Roche’s body was growing soft from sweat. It made him crash them both to his bed, the thing groaning as if it would snap, but it held as he mounted Vernon, slapping his legs apart so he could properly angle himself.

The moment his cock slid over his, Roche finally stilled, his chest shaking as he breathed. He paused and let him take it in, the sight of him leaning over, how they were joined so roughly. How their sweat was beginning to build and create a musk between them. A lure, in a sense, only for the both of them to be pulled into a trap and he swallowed it willingly. There was a hesitation for Roche before he finally gave in, and the space between them narrowed as he leaned over him until every part of them was nearly flush with one another.

Only then did Vernon swallow, his lips wet for a second, tempting his with how good they looked but he hid his tongue before he could react. Again, tempting him, daring him to move. But he was sparring with the wrong Witcher if he thought he wouldn’t. Something was already cracked in his mind and his thirst had been growing since the moment he stepped foot past the silver lilies. If he was going mad, he might as well enjoy it and he moved to kick off his boots.

“Geralt-” Roche said, almost in clarity at how eager he was growing, but he reacted. Without asking - without any semblance of permission - he swept back up him to pin him down to his pathetic bed, rattling the pallet and his fizzling sanity. Then he kissed him. He _damn_ well kissed him.

As if he was drowning and Roche was his only source of air, as if he was going to perish and be swallowed by Sabrina’s flames that night. He kissed him until he couldn’t feel anything other than him and how bitter and smoky his saliva tasted on his tongue.

Roche arched, his thighs closing around his hips, squeezing as he moaned and it only made him shudder wickedly in response. This was what he wanted. Damn truth. Gods could take their rationality. He _wanted_. As if he was a child again, picking through swords. Emotions or not, _he wanted_ and the only damn thing in his head was the bastard below him. The thin, violent Commander who had hexed him like an expert sorcerer.

They broke, just so they could breathe, but he could taste the intensity on his tongue. Tobacco was awful - but Roche’s mouth was so desirable. “Witcher,” Roche panted, taken off guard but he saw the drunkeness in his own eyes. He wasn’t chastising now - he was needing. “A-Again.”

He gave in. For them both, for he suspected Roche was drowning the madness just as much as him.

It caused a cascade upon them when he finally angled right and swallowed the moan caught in Roche’s throat. Like wild horses running in the snow or a ship being thrown between waves. There was nothing else but them and the _lust_ they had for each other. Like a fever that caused one to wail, or a wildfire burning around them, he needed the Commander and Roche reacted back in equal desire. No longer inhibiting himself as he spread and curled his legs around him, his back arching when he slid a hand underneath him to stroke at his spine. How his muscles rolled under his palm, his lungs stuttering when he kissed him for too long, and his chest rose and fell against his, both aching for air.

But he didn’t completely give in like he nearly always did with others - the others he couldn’t remember at that point. He still had some consciousness about him to push his mouth roughly off his, only to bite his neck again instead.

And he let him without a single complaint or word.

He was his in that moment.

Roche was the first to spit sloppily in his hand and grab his cock in the middle of their frantic rubbing, slickening it and forming a loose grip around the head that bordered on agonizing. He created a tunnel with his hand for him to slide in and out of, the sweat of his palms like velvet on his shaft and it made him respond by leading their drastic rutting. Rough, rolling, and pointed; Angled to pleasure them both. He fucked the space where Roche’s thigh met his hip and mouthed the prominent muscle that ran from his ear to his collar. Tasting and groaning as he went, absorbing every shudder and swallow he felt. 

It was hard not to get lost in it, his eager hand running up Roche’s chest to stroke and tease his bared left nipple, treating it like he would to Triss, but with a bit more clip to his movements. Enough to pinch him to letting out a gasp of pain, tugging further to drive it out longer before he released and soothed it with his fingertips.

But he got no reply of anger or bitter words. What fell from Roche’s lips, into his white hair, was him groaning in pleasure - a low, rumbling sound, like thunder in the mountains. He was getting the Commander worked up into a dizzy lust and it spurred him, his hands clumsy as he staggered to meet him on the same level. It made him pull harder on his nipple the second time, kissing him as he moaned so he could experience it himself. The trembling line that he hadn’t taken with anyone else. Except Roche. _Only_ Roche.

The gods would forgive him if that grand revelation didn’t get his cock throbbing harder than before.

They weren’t made to act soft to one another. Vernon wasn’t a maiden and he wasn’t a knight. This was a body he wasn’t used to pleasing but he knew it just as he knew himself. He fought with him, exchanged early blows before he truly understood the man, yet it didn’t diminish anything. Roche was scarred like him, he jerked his hips with the same franticness, sweated and shuddered and even groaned deeply like he did. His blunted nails scratched his skin deep enough red lines appeared, yet he paid him back by biting his shoulder with enough strength to leave teeth marks like a Foglet. 

It wasn’t about suppleness or romance, or even the kissing. It was about giving and taking and silently telling one another the truth - one he had ignored until the clashing of their skin began to make sense. In a deluded way, he finally could see. He wanted Roche because he saw himself in him. A wild, untamed wolf. One more guarded than he currently was but not far off from what he used to be. There was a hidden vulnerability in him that he purposely kept secret because Roche knew, just as he did, that opening it up was too big of a wound. Surrounded, yet alone. Always on edge but still yearning to be touched. Whores filled his void just as violence filled Roche’s, but in the end, they both needed an affirmation. To have someone else understand and not think they were _insane_.

They were equals. Vain, stupid, and always denying the truth.

Vernon and him were the same.

Roche pushed him roughly, knocking him away from his shoulder, and he kissed underneath larynx, driving the holy revelation of his small truth into his gut and straight to his hips. He nipped and sucked, his fingers moving to grip his cock and jerk it in a erratic motion, and it left him instinctively melting into it, his mind blanking save for the thought of gripping his flesh back. His spine - ridges he could feel - was abandoned for his ass and he pushed them together harder, fucking and grinding and panting until Vernon squeezed his shaft and moaned into his neck.

“Shit-!” he nearly let go. But Roche denied him. Or more accurately, he denied himself.

Without warning, his hand was gone and he was shoving him with a force that knocked him back, severing their contact. The shadows and flames around them whirled and before he could comprehend what was happening, his head slammed into the thin padding on top of the pallet, knocking stars into his vision for a second as his own legs were spread. “Roche-?”

“Don’t talk,” he reminded him, suddenly on top, his eyes still dark as his chest heaved, but he saw how he licked his swelling lips combined with the intensity of his wet grip. He shifted, sliding down, and it took him a moment to push himself up on his forearms to understand what he was doing as he grabbed his shaft and held his cock erect.

Roche had fit neatly between his legs, half his body off the pallet, but still raised enough for him to retain his vicious presence. How close he was to his cockhead and how his sunburnt fingers were contrasting beautifully with it. He let their eyes meet, his dancing with intent, and he audibly swallowed, his head growing light from the change. That he had forgotten who he was dealing with; Just because Vernon moaned and spread, didn’t mean he was submitting. 

Roche leaned down, coming so close to his cock he could feel his breath sweep over his aching tip, and he took a moment to once again wet his lips. Teasing him in the same way he had done earlier. Prolonging the moment to drive him mad - or himself. He couldn’t rightly tell.

The second his wet mouth opened and dipped forward, he felt all the blood in his body surge. Roche’s mouth was _beyond_ what he could take. It was better than his sloppy thrusts against damp skin. Like he had wrapped a yard of silk around his cock. One that was hot, wet, and lathering him up just right.

Gods, it was better than anything and it made him fall back, his breath releasing in a pant. He was out of his element with this.

He hadn’t anticipated _this_.

Roche didn’t waste time as he pushed his cock deep into his mouth, past his teeth and against his tongue, swallowing with an ease he could only describe as being unfair. It was a noiseless motion he made as he sunk down until he could feel the tightness of muscle around his tip. Narrowed and tight; The back of his throat. Again, he panted but he pushed himself up to see, opening his pupils wide to take in the scene of Vernon on his cock, his throat bulging slightly as he concentrated and shifted. But it still didn’t prepare him for the sight that made his legs feel weak.

It was _paradise_ and a word flicked into his mouth. An isle - he had died and had been stranded there. 

This was it. Better than it. Heaven didn’t compare.

Roche had to pause, his brows fixing together tight as his fingers ran up his shaft to where his lips were, but he didn’t pull back. He held himself, a soft inhale coming from his nose, his throat swallowing and driving electricity down every nerve in his cock before the slow ascent began. Carefully, he raised himself up, the sound of wet sucking filling the air between them until he pulled off, exhaling as he did, a thick trail of spit left behind to soak into his shaft.

But he didn’t look at him - not yet. He merely stared at his hand, judging how far he was from the base, and he made a face he could only describe as disappointed.

“Roche-”

He dug his nails into him and it shut him right up. “Don’t. Talk.” He warned one last time. This time, he listened. No Witcher needed to lose something that precious.

Oddly, it reminded him of something. Lambert used to joke that the only good enhancement mutations ever did was giving them a solid second sword, but he begged to differ at that point. Both of them knew Roche could never achieve to reach the base - throats didn’t extend that long - and a part of his filthy mind began to lament that he’d never see his lover swallow him completely.

_Lover?_

Friend. His friend. Gods damn everything, Roche was a friend.

_Because all friends sucked each others cocks and humped like dogs in a dark tent._

He dug his nails into his eyes, forcing himself to think of anything else other than the dark chuckle in his head. A strange voice that he didn’t want to listen to at that moment. His focus should be - was - on how Roche was beginning to stroke him, his calloused fingers rough on his shaft yet his saliva was making them softer with each slide. His grip was perfect and with just the right pressure, teasing him and warming him until his mouth returned to chase his hand and it made him forget about everything else.

How could anyone think when this was being applied to them? A cocksucking for the ages? No one could and he didn’t allow himself either, his mind melting away as he stared down at the man between his legs. Greedily sucking on him in a way that made him lick his lips. He wanted _more_.

But sometimes restraint was better than indulgence.

He didn’t look - refused to. He didn’t want to think or know or do anything other than feel in that moment. To let Roche work him, how he sucked and swallowed, each movement making a noise that flooded his ears, his tongue wrapping and licking him to the point where he was surrendering. He was unconsciously unraveling his body, each vein and fiber unstitching every time he sucked until it left him with a pure feeling. 

Ecstasy. Mindless, thankless yet _thankful_ ecstasy that drove into his core and made him forget everything. Every scar, every battle, every moment he was wronged. It swept through him like a gentle wave, lapping at the back of his mind until even his vision faltered and he saw flashes in the shadows. Pops of light and bursts of stars. A melody that began and was being conducted by Roche; A symphony for his flesh.

His hips moved, thrusting up, and he felt no resistance to his need. There was only wet hands that braced themselves on his thigh and a hot mouth that accepted him. Swallowing around his shaft when it could, forming a wet hole for him to fuck, and encouraging him to lose it as the sucking became rhythmic and embracing.

He didn’t do this. He wasn’t senseless or thoughtless. He wanted to embrace his lovers - whoever they were - and give back as much as he took, but he couldn’t barely breathe in that moment; Thinking was out of the question. He became like an animal. No longer sentient enough to understand morality or sin. He just wanted in a way only an ancient or primal deity could understand.

He _thrust_ and Roche swallowed. Again and again, until he was gripping his hair and pushing him down on his cock, forcing him to give more, wanting to his the crescendo. The progressive rush of the intensity of ecstasy teasing him until he was panting and sweating in a fever. He needed it beyond what he could take and only Roche could give it to him. He was his last hope - the bandages for his wounds. The oil for his swords.

He _needed_ him like air.

And Vernon didn’t falter. He gave him _what he wanted._

It was over faster than he realized, his own back arching as he gulped for a semblance of sanity and the snap of pleasure hit him like he had been cracked on the back of his head with a wooden training sword. The feeling was just the same, where he was blinded and stupid for a second, fucking into the heat, seizing it, twisting it and owning it before collapsing in exhaustion, his sweat soaking in deep into the mattress below as his limbs filled with steel. They slapped against wood and earth, his body trembling in the aftermath while a licking persisted on his cock and even his balls, driving the pain of pleasure harder the center of his brain.

Then it was gone, the ecstasy and warmth vanishing to leave him with a familiar thud in his chest. Dull, heavy, and murky as a swamp.

_Was it worth it? His truth?_

Had it been worth it to fuck a part of Roche?

It made him snap to, his instincts filling his veins and he shoved himself up using his forearms, his eyes wincing at the flickering light and shadows around him, but on the ground Roche sat, white saliva dripping from his mouth. It took him a minute to realize what it was.

“Roche-” he tried, but the Commander merely held his hand at him, cutting off his words as if he was one of his soldiers. Yet he listened without protest and stared like a fool, watching as Roche furrowed his brows, his cheek twitching, his lips thin and creased into a line as his cheek moved before he leaned over to the right.

Violently he spat on the ground with a sound that made him flinch, and the sight of his spit made him nearly flush. Thick, white, and beading on the ground, soaking in after a few seconds of mocking him for how he barely registered that he had experienced his limit in Vernon’s mouth. Possibly down his throat as well. Before he could say anything more, Roche was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and moving to stand. As if he was getting up from having a round of ale.

It made him slump in shock. He didn’t know what he had expected in the aftermath, but it hadn’t been this.

Again, a mocking voice began in the back of his head, but he shoved it aside. He had to if he wanted to understand what he had witnessed.

“Vernon,” he attempted again. This time he didn’t stop him or cut him off. “I didn’t mean…” His words failed and trailed off, a deep discomfort filling his mouth on how to broach it. _Because he hadn’t ever done anything like that before or had such a reaction to it either._ “I shouldn’t have-”

“Are you satisfied?” he asked. It took him a second to realize what he was asking as he gave him a bored look, yet there was nothing malicious or accusatory in his tone. Like he was inquiring about the weather. “Are you satisfied, Geralt?” He hesitated on what to even say. Roche gave him a minute before he rolled his eyes and moved to pick up his shirt, throwing it back at him. It landed on his ankles. “You don’t look like you want to devour me anymore, so I’m going to take that as a yes.”

This wasn’t an outcome he was used to. “Roche,” he frowned. “Are you alright?”

He cocked his head at him, his expression changing from confused to irritated, before he turned to the table covered in weapons. As if they were more important. “I take it you don’t fuck many whores throats, Witcher.”

He bristled at him and slowly he moved to sit up, his back aching slightly from the pallet. It was more uncomfortable than it looked. “…No.”

“Hm.” 

It didn’t settle him. “Roche, are-”

He cut him off again as he reached for his boots, knocking them together for a moment to dust them off. “Look, Geralt. I’d rather not talk about this. I know that may seem odd to you, but I’m hardly one to engage in…” He paused for a second, picking his words carefully. “Pillow talk, I suppose it’s called.” He frowned at his back. This was far from what he would call a discussion after sex. “Let’s just leave it at this. We’ve spent too much time alone in here regardless. Ves will be back from scouting with the boys and I don’t want her asking questions that I don’t intend to answer.”

He still couldn’t help but stare at him, watching him brush off his trousers, the white cotton holding some of the dirt from the floor in small patches. Again, the feeling pulled at the back of his head but he shoved it aside briskly, his focus entirely on the lithe Commander trying to pretend he was fine with this.

Because he knew he couldn’t be. “Roche, did you get off?”

He glanced at him from over his shoulder but said nothing.

“Vernon. Let me-”

“I’m fine.” He beat the cotton for a second with his hand. “I have shit to do, Witcher. So, if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate if you dressed.”

But it didn’t satisfy him. “I didn’t come in here to use you, Roche.” He barely paused at his words as he moved to pull his undergarments on, though he saw him adjust awkwardly into his brais. It made his cheek twitch. “I meant what I said earlier.”

He pulled on his cotton shirt in silence, not listening. It made him lick his lips as a rush of heat met him - to make him understand again. There was still a need hot enough in himself to scald his insides and burn his cheeks at the undeniable truth he was about to utter. That he had to say before it drowned in the ocean between them.

“Roche,” he said, touching himself, feeling the saliva on his cock that he had left. A physical sensation that lingered on himself; But he didn’t want to be the only one bearing the scar. “I want you.”

He finally paused, his hand hovering over his belt for a moment before it turned into two. He was giving him an opening. He _understood_ still.

Wanting couldn’t just be erased.

As if commanded, he pushed off the pallet, leaving his own shirt behind as he moved silent to him, his steps treading softer than a cat as he walked on his forefeet. Before Roche could protest or move to hit him, he grabbed him from behind, snaking one hand across his abdomen as the other grabbed the wrist of his right hand. The stiffness and resistance was expected, but he could feel the tauntness in his stomach, his breath sharp but trembling as if to try and deny himself.

He didn’t even have to reach down to know the truth, but he gave him some leniency for it. “Roche,” he licked at his exposed neck, trailing his mouth down as he tasted the texture of his sweat. How his skin prickled and he flexed under him but was ultimately trapped, his left hand moving to brace the table. He stared at how red the back of his ears were, the tips begging to be nipped. “Let me.”

“I’d rather get dressed,” he muttered, yet there was no bite behind his sentence.

“And I’d prefer to see you satisfied,” he leaned into him, straining to kiss at where his jaw met his ear, but again Roche bristled away, resisting. Turning away from him so he could only see his cheek and ear - refusing to let him see the truth. “Especially after you-”

“If me sucking on your stupid cock is what you deem satisfying, then I truly wonder how bad Triss is in bed.”

He bit him for that, dragging a strangled yelp from his throat, but as soon as he grabbed his cock, holding it firm in his hand, it lowered into a moan. A half-punishment in a sense. He couldn’t just let him get away with saying _anything_.

His body shifted in response to his sudden predicament, his hips leaning forward to get away, then backward to have more, unsure of what they really wanted. His legs spread slightly the harder he squeezed until he could feel the flexibility in Roche’s thighs. That what he had presented on the pallet was far from how much he could be pushed. It made him pant slightly, his own body still relaxing from the aftermath but still hard enough to know that lust could still be tasted on their tongues.

Still, he had a job to do and he adjusted his grip, sliding his hand up and down Roche’s shaft once to test. It got him a grateful moan in response.

It didn’t feel much different from his own cock - length aside - and he found himself imitating how he would stroke himself during the nights when his thoughts had dulled. Slow to start, feeling himself, how hot the skin was, how it moved with his hand, before he gave a few hard pumps to test. A mark for himself to understand how long he wanted to last, but to Roche, it made him buck, his body bending instantly so he could catch the table with flat palms.

It wasn’t what he was expecting, but the reaction had been satisfying to see.

“Vernon,” He mumbled, leaning over with him, giving him another squeeze at the base of his shaft to see what further wriggling he would do. How his cock pulsed in his hand, swollen from blood, but he wasn’t given any further response. His words were replaced with breaths - some louder than others - and his body grew tight and tense as if he was a coil and set to lash out at any second. He took the chance that he wouldn’t, but only because he could feel a bit of strength returning in his frame. The feeling of being spent hadn’t lingered long and if needed, he’d shove Roche to the floor to get him off just as he had done to him.

Only this time he wasn’t sure how far he could restrain himself.

Quietly, he found the crook of his neck to distract his mind from the budding prospect of mounting Roche purposely, the gentle slope where his muscles and tendons met his shoulder giving him a place to slide his tongue down. Like water tumbling down a cliff - or a Witcher plunging off one headfirst _because he had no semblance of control_. Without asking, he began to nurse the area. Licking and nipping, unable to stop his tongue as his hand started to move with thoughtless stroking. Rhythmic and learned, just as he used to do to himself as he pressed his softened cock against Roche’s backside.

Once more, Roche didn’t object, though his fingertips grew white against the table.

It didn’t take long for him to work them both up. He could feel the rumble in his gut but his body was still too exhausted, leaving him with an underlying shiver of heat beneath his skin. He stroked Roche quick and hard, absorbing his inhaled moans and hissed sighs as he did, letting him dictate the rhythm as his hips moved and thrust during his tempered jerking. Vernon had been closer to the edge than he realized, denying himself for reasons he doubt he’d ever know. As soon as he began pulling harder on his cock, he felt the precome bead and sweat like a leaky water bucket, his foreskin pulling back tight to leave him shuddering violently as he slid gentle fingers around his head and over his slit.

It wasn’t his intention to tease, but he knew delay was often best when coiled to the point Roche was. He bucked against him a few times, grinding and shivering, grasping at the edges of the table when he reached down and cupped his balls as a reward, but he held the restraint between them. Until he felt him start to relax - to unwind the spring in his internal ballista. Only then did he allow his pace to increase - when Roche finally stopped holding himself in, just as he had. It was a feeling that made him smile, as if he was experiencing it himself. The wracking, the buildup, the frustration; it was all emotions that drove him to twist, melt, and beg only moments before. A cacophony of emotions neither of them let themselves experience with another. This was the motions of reclusive nights hidden away from eyes. Private, lonely, but freeing.

When no one could judge them but the eyeless stars.

“Geralt,” Roche nearly heaved, his body trembling as he arched, pushing against his chest, and he let go of his wrist to move and push a finger or two into his hot mouth, holding his slippery tongue. Payback, in a way.

“No talking,” he smirked. For an instant he thought Roche was going to tear his two fingers off like a rabid dog, but when he moved his thumb to stroke his slit in rapid pets, he only responded by sinking against the table, his eyes fluttering and heels sliding in the dirt as he gave in.

It was a sight he held in his chest for a moment, his eyes drawn to watching the side of Roche’s face, how the stony, cold expression had turned into something raw and human. Even as he turned him so he could see more, his fingers pulling at the corner of his drooling mouth, it was his first time seeing the look of ecstasy in a man. One lost to his feelings, his eyes blazing yet hundred of miles from him. Even as he breathed into his ear, he could see what every stroke of his hand was doing to him.

He was driving Roche to the same point he had achieved. Blinding, rushing ecstasy that lapped at the brain and rendered him unable to think other than animalistically. He was growing lost, his eyes expanding into pools that were galaxies away, and he no longer resisted anything he did. His biting, his pulling, the way he turned his head so far back that he could nearly kiss him; Roche let him do as he wanted.

As long as his hand kept stroking. That was the key and he wasn’t going to drop it down a well.

As quick as it had come for him, Roche’s breath increased, his back arching expectedly as his teeth bit down on his fingers, and he understood. Silently he pressed his face into the crook of his neck again, biting the shivering flesh as he stoked Roche as hard as he could, imagining himself yet not. Him inside him, his mouth on his, his fingers in deeper than they had been. The raw sensation that roared between them - Vernon’s breathing driving it - before the stuttering started and there was a choked gasp.

He pulled his fingers away and Roche finally spoke his unintelligible lust; He groaned deeply, like a man in pain, before it twisted into bliss and he went silent, save for his fingers scratching the wood and his teeth clenching shut tight. 

There was no point to look down to see if Roche had released. His expression told him the height and when it began to crash; His eyes melting after the apex to drown in the shadowed firelight. He let go to hug Roche to himself, feeling him as he breathed in deep and fast, his chest rising and falling, before a shudder ran down his spine and he let his forehead hit the table. Once, twice, then nothing. He slumped.

A minute later the magic was over and he was prying his hands off his stomach.

“Go get dressed,” he growled. It made him sigh as he draped himself over his body. His back was beginning to ache now.

“Do you feel better?”

His nails dug in deep into the thin skin of his hand and he realized blunt nails could do just as much damage as sharpened. “Geralt, if you’re not dressed in less than five minutes, I will dive my sword into your stomach and make sure it stays there for every minute over,” he growled.

He let go of him, knowing that despite his threat being childish, he meant it, but he rolled his eyes at his back as he did. A move of defiance he wouldn’t be able to see. Quietly, he strode back to the pallet to pull on his tunic, the cotton sticking to parts of him that were still wet with sweat before he strode calmly back to the table where the rest of him lay. Roche already was pulling his chainmail on, his fingers quick across the belts and hooks, and he found himself watching once again.

Such fingers had been on him. Just as his body had been flush with his, his sweat mixing with his own.

For a second, his heart beat too fast until he realized the foolishness in it.

He needed to get dressed. He really didn’t want Ves to see him in such a state either.

But it was while he was drawing his own armor on that the guilt began to creep in. The voice he had resisted and pushed away earlier seemed to come back with a sick vegence; Slowly, it crept in on shadowed feet and started with a mocking tone in the darkness of his thoughts. Soft, yet he couldn’t help but acknowledge it above all the other mumbling feelings in his head. The ecstasy had slipped away, gone like a phantom in the night, and what remained was unimpressed with him. Standing voices that he recognized all began to speak and one thought prevailed about all.

What the hell had he done?

As the atmosphere died down and the flames of the braziers and torches melted further, smoldering into ash and runny, weak pitch, things began to turn inside him. Everything had explanations. He _needed_ one now. What led him to that moment? Where he decided to forsake his sanity?

Why had he ignored all the moments for him to leave?

In the aftermath and post-orgasm, things weren’t as enticing and blatant as they had seemed. Vernon Roche was not his lover - he was not a good substitute for Triss. Even in the height of their clash, they met each other with teeth and roughness as opposed to tenderness and warmth. Fingers that had clung to him had left half-moons on his skin and indents on his shoulder. Wounds a monster would inflict on him - and had. Did he not remember the scars on his back? The whip lines that Triss had tended, each having cut over his flesh with a cruelness that had been ordered by the man he had just got off?

He drew his lips thin as he fastened his backstrap across his chest, his eyes catching Roche behind him wrapping up the last of his belts.

Why had he chosen him? What had struck him to ignore his reason in Kaedwen? Was he truly running after Triss? The Kingslayer? Or had something come to distract him?

He gave Roche the barest of glances, yet his eyes lingered on how he rolled his shoulder before he adjusted his blade on his hip. Low enough for him to pull it free if needed. Sheathless yet it bounced and nicked against thick padded fabric, the signs of it having scraped the area raw evident even under the shadowy torchlights.

Vernon was a bastard. Truthfully and in personality. His patience was thinner than a strand of horse hair, his violence cruel for one so human. He was brazen and black; A pitch and tar attitude and tongue with a mistrust that ran as deep as the veins of metal through a mountain. No one was attracted to Roche willingly unless they already had hands wet with blood and and dirt. He had not been so inclined until some sort of sickness inflicted him when he entered the tent - his first, in a sense. Was there magic leeching off the battlefield? Had a sorceress left something behind where Roche had erected his tent?

Or had he truly walked in with a purpose? It all felt too strange to recall correctly.

If he was smart, he would have left. Didn’t he fit in more with misfits and those shunned in the ruins of Vergen? Wasn’t he more Scoia’tael than Blue Stripes? A Witcher didn’t belong with humans. How many times had he been spit at and cursed from men just the same as Roche? His death at the hands of a peasant boy with a pitchfork.

And here stood another peasant boy, only this one held a sword.

He stared at the lilies on the tent for a moment, the darkness wicking away around him until the air no longer was held thick with desire, but now heavy with regret.

What was the truth? Did he just commit another mistake - another dumb drunken night, this time with the Blue Stripes Commander as opposed to the basic lot outside? Or did he truly want him?

Was Roche someone he wanted, even with a clear mind?

Before he could tie his swords to himself and leave, Roche was beside him, his brown eyes still black as the light flickered around them, but he could see a strangeness in them that caused him pause. When he met his equally, Roche barely blinked, but he understood his expression better.

He looked worried. It made him falter and he glanced away, reaching for his swords as a distraction and a compulsion. Silver and Steel; The mark of his profession and course of his life. He had been stripped away of emotion, hadn’t he? He needed to find Triss. He was naked without the swords on his back, potions at his hip, and thoughts only on The Path.

Roche spoke first, as if he understood every thought in his mind. Like he was undressing him once again. “Go for a walk, Geralt. Get drunk. Go whoring.” He turned to him, confused and Roche merely shrugged. As if he was used to it. “You think you’re the first to regret it? It’s why I told you to dress after.”

“I didn’t-”

He snorted, his eyes rolling slightly as he dismissed his instinctual need to refute. “You reacted tonight, Geralt. You think I’ve never seen a man swept up in lust? Acting stupid? Wanting? You’re not the damn first.” His eyes drew toward the entrance of his tent. “You won’t be the last.”

His mouth drew thin at the last line and for a moment, his heart skipped, as if for a second he knew fear. Or was it? Once he thought he knew jealousy, but now he was unsure. He didn’t even know where they stood anymore and his silence only brought worse accusations to rise between them. Why should he care?

Why _shouldn’t_ he care?

Roche just reached up to rub at his eye before he flicked away whatever dirt had gotten into it. Unbothered by his internal dialogue. “I told you I’m not one for pillow talk or whatever it’s damn well called. But if you’re worried I’ll say something, I won’t.”

The words slipped out before he could dwell on them. “I know.”

“Do you?” he said, giving him a strange look. He didn’t understand.

“Yes.”

A pause passed between them and he found himself staring at the expression that had crossed over Vernon’s face. Like for the first time, Roche was giving him a true look at himself. That he could read his doubts and understood his brooding. He knew how he was viewing him. Right after he had ravaged him - wanted him, needed him - and yet he had turned in disgust at them both.

Ves’ words came to his mind. _His mother had to sell herself. The children called him a whore’s son._ Now here he was, thinking of him like he was something awful and fetid to touch. Judging him to cleanse himself of what he had done. The misfit bastard boy who had managed to become a Commander, only for a Witcher to pursue him, overwhelm him, then be dismissive because he was human.

He swallowed and it ran thick down his tongue. “Roche, I didn’t mean-”

“Yes, you did,” he said quietly. “I’ve lived long enough Witcher. I know things. I’ve stood in enough courts and councils, been called everything under the sun, have done things I’m not proud of. I know what people think of me. I’m used to it.” He gave a small sigh. “And I know you’re frustrated about Triss. I know I piss you off more than you want to admit. I’ve heard your friend - Zoltan, or whatever - and what he thinks of me and my men.” He leveled his gaze with his. “And I know you think the same in some ways.”

He pressed his lips thin again, feeling exposed; Flayed open, as if the tent wasn’t around them anymore. That he should object - this wasn’t the truth - and yet he didn’t really know anymore. They had been the same when swept in desire, but in that moment he realized Roche was completely different than him. He was more vulnerable.

He _knew_ himself.

“Then why did you let me do it?”

He said nothing.

“Roche?” he implored. _Nearly pleaded._

Finally, he shrugged. As if it was the most obvious answer in the world. “Because I wanted to help you.”

He was left speechless. Roche said nothing more as he turned and began to walk back to the badly tied entrance of his tent, pausing at the flaps to undo them and pull them aside, his fingers just as deft as they had been before. Beyond him, the world opened once more and he saw reality staring at him. Thirteen, with his short crop of hair and knife pressing under his gums, neatly nodded to Vernon as he stepped out. Either not caring or not knowing, but he didn’t look back in at him as he stood alone by the table. Beside Thirteen, Silas tapped his sword against his boot and yawned. The Temerian killers - Special Forces.

Regular men. All who looked to Roche with respect while he couldn’t look him properly in the eye after he had pulled him into his warped intimacy.

Quietly, he moved to sit at the table, his swords still on the floor.

There had been explanations before; No, there was only excuses to his lust. Ones he made up after attending a brothel or taking a favor. He had wanted and needed, and in the end, his invisible strings had gotten twisted and tied around Roche. Yet he had tried to sever it before thinking on the truth. Something he didn’t want to acknowledge. 

His lust had started because he had seen something in him that moment in the woods of Flotsam. Where his plans - hindering and costly in time - still made him choose to stay, whether he was subconscious of it or not. He was with him when they sailed, all of them dour and sallow, yet a slight brightness shone through when they had erected their camp for a second time. As if they could move on - just like him, in a way. He could move on when given the chance. He didn’t have to wallow in the past - he wasn’t a Kingslayer and only those he cared about knew that truth. Yet Roche, in his blues and silver, his eyes sharp and unyielding with a biting tone that made dogs bark back, still invited him to their tent. As secretive as he was, he still didn’t turn him away, even when he was itching to leave and find _her_. Perhaps it was then that Roche began viewing him more favorably than he realized.

And when he thought about it, he listened to him. He didn’t treat him as stupid. He let him be an equal. There were secrets, but everyone had them and he was more interested in finding Triss than knowing what Roche was doing. And Roche never chastised him for it. Every day he kept returning to their camp, even when unprompted. Even when he _shouldn’t_. Not to the brothel, nor the tents that Henselt offered, or to someplace away from them all where he could think. He was drawn back to the Temerians - their Commander - over and over until something in him twisted it all into a motivation for it.

Bound by duty; Honor. He had to find Triss. He had to find the Kingslayer.

He wasn’t a Kingslayer.

He wasn’t Temerian.

But he wanted to be near Roche. The strange bastard that had him tortured yet had run to find him like a dog in Flotsam. Who snapped and him in anger, yet worried on where he had gone. Leaned on his blade yet didn’t chastise when he nearly turned it on him or hit his men. Roche had been so trusting and he repaid him in the end by looking down on him for it.

Slowly, he sighed as he leaned back, his head beginning to hurt. Was he justified?

Yes. In a way, he was. Roche had still gotten him beaten. Snapped at him, stomped his foot like a child over elves, acted like friendship was only a street that was paved with favors.

But in the same breath, no. He wasn’t justified in treating him like he had seduced him. It wasn’t his fault he got drunk on desire.

Yet it was if Roche expected it. He knew he was doing it. 

Did he mean his words? Was it just lust speaking? The ache since Triss was gone? Was he making excuses? Was this logic or was he broken as a Witcher now too? Cursed with _emotion_? Did he make a mistake following Roche or was he only regretting it because everything had become so tangled? That he hadn’t chosen a different path and severed himself from the man that had let him go free.

He owed him nothing.

He owed him something - more than a handjob.

He didn’t owe him anything.

But an apology.

_Would he forgive him?_

By the time Ves entered, he had strapped on his swords and was adjusting them to fit flush on his back, his mind still in a fog of strangeness and confusion. Every time he found a truth, it collapsed and he was left at the start. Blaming and cursing himself, then Roche, then back to himself. It was becoming like a tidal wave and one he was growing weary from.

“Geralt,” she said, her voice like a song, her chest exposed enough to give him a reprieve from his thoughts. He gratefully nodded to her in response. Seeing her was one of the perks of Kaedwen - that and her Commander, if he could ever face him again. “The lads said you were still in here. You alright?”

He frowned as she came to his side, watching her expression, waiting for her to start chewing him out over Roche or to mention the smell or something. Yet she only stood with doe eyes, innocent yet longing, and he realized he knew the look.

What he felt for her Commander. Her eyes were mirroring his. His misplaced affections, his draw to something dangerous. His _mistake _.__

__“Clasp broke,” he said, quickly looking away as he rose and shrugged. Cracking the kinks from his back and the ache in his head. “I just fixed it. Nothing more.”_ _

__“Are you sure?” she asked, hope sounding in her voice as he stepped around her to leave. Before she noticed the truth. “Maybe I should take a look.”_ _

__He shook his head, careful not to blatantly avoid her yet walk far enough away so she couldn’t reach out and stop him. _Confront him_ on what he had done. Would she see it in Roche at some point? _ _

__Would anyone defend him?_ _

__“There’s some things I need to do in the canyon.”_ _

__“Do you need help?”_ _

__“No. It’s Witcher work.”_ _

__“Oh,” she sounded so disappointed and it made his cheek twitch as he came to the entrance, his guilt manifesting again. Outside, Thirteen and Silas still stood, Silas’ eyes closed as he leaned against the post, but he couldn’t see any sign of Roche. It made him relieved and remorseful all in the same breath. “Well, be careful out there, Witcher.”_ _

__He paused. Yes. That was what he needed to be. Careful - Smart. _Logical._ Truth instead of chaos. Clear; Coherent. Unmistakable._ _

___Himself_._ _

__He turned back to give her a nod and he noticed the small smile she displayed in gratefulness. Something he could feel. “I will.”_ _

__

__\--_ _


End file.
